


and god bless your crooked soul

by wildmachinery



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-13
Updated: 2006-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildmachinery/pseuds/wildmachinery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's had the same CD in his truck for almost two months, stuck on repeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and god bless your crooked soul

**Author's Note:**

> christ, i have _so_ crossed a line with this.

**i.**  
Jensen's had the same CD in his truck for almost two months, stuck on repeat. It's still playing the night that Jared has to pour him into the passenger seat, Mike and Tommy laughing and cracking terrible "Bobo Epstein" and "Tom Swelling" jokes like the drunken idiots they are in the back. Thirty seconds after Jared's turned the engine on, Mike's turning up his nose and asking what the hell that shit is that Jared's making them listen to. Jared must be sick to death of the entire album, but he grins over at Jen and turns the volume up, and they sing "Before She Does" and "How 'Bout You" at each other, belting out _give me a crowd that's redneck and loud_ in perfect Texas harmony, until Mike is covering his ears and Tommy's looking like he's about to cry. Jensen is limp and boneless and half-passed out and happier than he's been all week, laughing along with Jared, and he wakes up in Jared's wide bed with Jared's dogs passed out on his feet, with Jared's warm mouth and sunny smile and the smells of coffee and frying bacon drifting in from the kitchen. You're the best girlfriend ever, Jensen tells him seriously.

Bitch, shut your mouth, Jared says, smacking him upside the head, but he laughs and still makes Jensen the best chocolate chip pancakes he's ever eaten anyway.

When Mike glues all of Jensen's shoes to the floor of his trailer and steals Jared's underwear to sell on Ebay - punishment for grievous musical crimes against humanity, he says, as if he knows from good music - Jared's right there with him gluing Mike's cabinets shut and replacing his television and laptop with cardboard props.

Hell, Jared brings the glue.

 **ii.**  
They hit a Kane show when they're back in L.A., on break from filming. Chris is wiped from touring, but he still puts on a hell of a show, and Jensen is so proud of him he could bust. He and Jared whoop and holler along with the rest of the crowd, grinning like morons and just happy to be there, free from sixteen-hour days and bad catered food and the grey skies of Vancouver.

They at least remember to lock the bathroom door this time; Jared tastes like cheap beer and coffee and something else that Jensen knows better than anything he can remember, and Jensen sinks down almost gratefully, one hand on Jared's hip. They're playing the "The House Rules" out there, loud enough to make the walls shake, and the heavy beat doesn't quite drown out the raw, ripped-open noises that Jared's making, the choked-off gasps and little whimpers, with one hand tangled roughly in Jensen's hair. Oh, he says, Jen, almost wonderingly, and Jensen moans deep in his throat and squeezes Jared's hip hard enough to bruise.

They have a couple of drinks with Chris and Steve after the show, just catching up; Jen's mouth twitches and Jared grins, every time their knees brush together under the table.

They sleep in the next morning.

 **iii.**  
Jared still shoves his finger up Jen's nose and then laughs his big goofy laugh, with a smile as wide as the sky; Jensen still special-orders gummy rats to leave in Jared's shoes. They still work sixteen-hour days and eat bad food and fall asleep in Sam and Dean's clothes with their trailers covered in pages from half-read scripts. They still go out to drink and watch the game and flirt with pretty women, but they go home together now often as not. Jensen keeps food and treats and extra bowls for Jared's dogs at his place; he's got t-shirts and socks buried in Jared's dresser. Jared eats all his peanut butter and drinks all his milk; Jensen leaves his wet towels on Jared's bathroom floor. Man, do I look like your maid, Jared asks him after about the billionth time he does it, and Jensen makes a crack about French maid outfits and takes Jared back to bed until he forgets what he was complaining about.

They're still partners in crime, comfortably tangled up in each other's lives. Jensen can't remember how it started now, unless it was when Jared had walked up to him in that empty room, asking where everyone else was, and Jensen had told him, _you and me, it's just you and me_.

Jensen thinks it doesn't really matter how it might have started, just like it doesn't really matter how it might end someday. He's got Jared's huge hands and his warm genuine laugh, his drawl and his dimples and the tiny freckles on his shoulders, and for now, for Jensen, these things are enough.


End file.
